


The Witch's Mockingbird

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, End of the world universe, F/M, Petyr is...not what you are expecting probably, Sansa is a witch, secret santa gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 06:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13141422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa wanders through the emptiness of the world and her mind, when she comes across a lonely mockingbird.[AG Secret Santa gift.]





	The Witch's Mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this drawing: https://machosalad.tumblr.com/post/166594217883/
> 
> For @machosalad on tumblr. You should all check them out their art is fantastic!!
> 
> [Surprise surprise, it’s me your Secret Santa! :D Couldn’t stop scrolling through your art ‘cause it really /is/ fantastic, and having to pick one to write a fic on was such a challenge! Still, this might have taken a bit of a different direction than you had whilst you drew it (and admittedly a little different ending than /I/ thought). BUT I really really hope you like this!!! :) Oh, and happy holidays!]

 

           Sansa had gotten used to the cold. The way it snuck up on her even beneath heavy furs and a roaring fire, discontent with her willing it away. A pesky thing, most days. Sneaking between minute holes in her cloak or running up a fur-trimmed sleeve.  _ I’m hereeee _ , it whispered with a barrage of goosepimples. A constant companion.

           The cold, and the quiet. Those were her only friends these days.

           The wooden door slammed behind her, fresh snow crunching beneath her boots. Sansa blinked against all the whiteness in the world – like a blank canvas, but not truly. Like someone had painted over a finished one to clean it, to make it ready for a new painting. Only there were spots missed, slashes of color (mostly blacks and browns and blues) that felt so at odds with the white. Like her – they shouldn’t be there.

           Sansa adjusted the scarf around her nose and mouth. The wind was still today, filling the world with the heaviness of silence. It suffocated her. Whispering along the rise of goosepimples:  _ you’re alone you’re alone you’re alone _ .

           Sometimes, the silence of it all was worse. 

           Sometimes (like right now), Sansa would climb hills and peer through the assemblage of trees covered in snow, and stare southward. On a clear day, she could make it out. The dark grey silhouette of the towers, the sharp lines of the outer wall, the briefest slash of color amongst the browns and greys: red. Ice on the roofs and merlons glistened in the mid-morning sun. If she squinted tight enough, Sansa could pretend to see the pinpoints of people and horses moving about the stones. Going about their ordinary lives. Go about living. But she knew in her heart (what remained of it), they weren’t there.  _ Nobody _ was there, not in a long, long time.

           Winterfell. Home.

_ I can’t go back _ .

           So she turned and climbed back down the hill. The wind freezing tears on her cheeks.

           Sansa’s staff punched exact holes in the snow –  _ thwump thwump thwump _ – as she traversed through the snow and trees. Sometimes, she would count to pass the time. Usually she forgot where she was in the two– or three-hundreds.  _ How many steps have I wandered _ , she thought, watching the snow flutter from the fresh hole punched in the snow.  _ Too many _ .

           Isolation. If there was a word to describe what this was, what Sansa had confined the rest of her years to: isolation, or imprisonment. Or penance.

           She  _ failed _ . As simple as that. Her home, her family, all of the men and women and children and animals who lived and worked in Winterfell. They had been  _ counting _ on her. Sansa felt her body suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe fast enough.

           Something brushed past her head.

           “Oh!” Sansa startled, raising her staff. It was too early in the morning for  _ them _ to be wandering. Unless they had gotten smarter these past weeks. She thought she saw a smaller one walking before the sun had fully set. Testing the limits of their own existence. Sansa wouldn’t put it past them to one day travel the world like humans used to – now that the world was theirs. 

           The animals were few and far between, with the land fully encased in ice and snow. Some still lived, but scarcity meant survival. Meant tearing apart one’s own family to live for a day more, two. Sansa had seen the bear cubs rip apart their own mother, hot blood melting the snow beneath. The mother didn’t cry out as she was eaten – like she  _ knew _ this was her fate. Like she  _ knew _ that one day, she would gladly give herself up if it meant her children would survive a little longer. Might make it to when the snows melted and flowers blossomed in sun-kissed fields.

           The mother could only hold onto that dream as she died. The cubs died, too, eventually. One turned on another when their mother’s body ran out of meat. The last one walked through the snow for a long time – Sansa had been following it, watching it. It took shelter in the nook of a fallen tree as dusk settled over the landscape. And in the morning, it had vanished. Sansa hadn’t heard it leave, hadn’t seen footprints walk away from that tree. She had to wonder if it had been only a mirage brought on by her isolation and fear.

           But the last time Sansa had seen creatures was last week (or maybe the week before. It was hard to judge days, when each one was filled with the same whiteness, the same loneliness). A fox, summer-red pelt dashing through empty bushes. Pouncing against the snow with the desire to  _ kill _ .

           A small cry for  _ help _ erupted beneath its paws.

           That was the way of life. Sansa already interfered once ( _ more than once _ , she remembered bitterly), and look where that left her. Alone, at the end of the world. She stood, watching as the fox lowered its jaws to devour its prey.

           A roar erupted, echoed off the trees. Sansa thought it might shake the snow off of them. She shrank beneath the tree she’d been hiding behind, remembering all of the horrors she had seen. Creatures not of this world, not even from the darkest recesses of her imagination. Ones with talons that shredded children apart in one slash. Ones with fangs that tore legs from body. Ones that didn’t care whether someone was rich or poor or Stark or Lannister – they only wanted to  _ feed _ . Screams. There had been so many screams.

           The fox thought the same, bounding away as quick as it could.

           Sansa looked all around her, praying to the gods (if they still existed, and if they hadn’t given up on humanity entirely) that she wouldn’t die here. Not here, not now. Not when her penance wasn’t finished.

           The icy air stung the back of her throat as she breathed, in out in out in out.

           Beneath the pounding in her head – a faint cry for  _ help _ .

           Sansa’s gaze shot to where the fox had been. A barely-there smudge of not-white in the world of white. It moved, barely, breathing like she was. Desperate not to die.

           She approached it with careful steps, licking chapped lips (she tasted metal), all the while looking about in case something  _ actually was _ there with them. As if maybe this was a clever trap that the foolish witch easily fell into. And not for the first time.

           Sansa kneeled, the bottom of her cloak catching snow. She looked at the bird, so small and fragile, and yet not. This one was smarter than the rest. It stared up at her with eyes black as pitch. It was  _ terrified _ , too, just like Sansa. But not terrified  _ of _ Sansa – it had seen worse. It had seen the horrors that roared and devoured and destroyed. 

           In the center of the bird’s chest was a jagged cut from the fox’s claws. The fox thought of survival – eat the bird, live for a little longer until it could find something else. The bird thought of survival, too – terrify the fox, escape, live for a little longer until it could fly somewhere (anywhere) else.

           Sansa carefully cupped it in her gloved hands, brushing away the snow from its feathers. She tried to identify it from it’s coloring and the way the feathers lay against its body (though difficult now with the gash). Soft grey feathers, stripes of white, and a blood-soaked breast. It wasn’t native to the North – not this far North. 

           “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you,” she said to it.  _ A survivor, or an outcast. Like me _ . 

           Despite the cold, something urged Sansa to pull her scarf down, and kiss that long jagged thing, breathing magic into the bird. She watched the skin knit back together, watched as its breathing returned in one large gulp of air, slowing to normalcy.

           Sansa smiled at it as those black eyes stared at her. She wiped away the lingering blood from her lips with a gloved thumb. Its feathers had tickled. “You should go back home. To your family. I’m sure they miss you.”

           The bird blinked its black eyes at her. Did it even understand what she was saying? 

           She sat there in the snow for several long minutes, watching the bird breathe, watching it look around. Afraid that this was a dream of its wicked imagination – that were it to blink, Sansa would transform into those monsters. She would devour it in a single bite. 

_ Go home. I’m sure they miss you _ . 

           Eventually, the bird hopped up onto its narrow legs, staring up at her with a cocked head. Sansa smiled at it.  _ Go _ . It spread its grey wings, and with a melodic  _ coo _ ing (like it wanted to say goodbye but couldn’t, not in the way Sansa would understand), flew away.

           Gods. She couldn’t help but wonder – but  _ wish _ – for someone to tell her that, too.

* * *

           Now, Sansa reached up to touch where it had brushed against the hood of her cloak. Daring so close to something it didn’t know (for all it knew, Sansa was as horrible a monster as the one’s it had seen. It  _ had _ to have seen them, Sansa knew, to mimic their roars so perfectly. She wondered if they had come across the same monster. At least, the ones of ice and shadows. Not the ones Sansa had seen ravage her home, her family, herself). 

           That bird had fluttered about the North. Sometimes, Sansa felt like something had been watching her whilst she wandered the frozen fields and weaved between snow-covered trees. The fear of those  _ things _ that wandered around moonless nights. Or the ones that grew increasingly braver, testing out the still world with the haze oranges of light streaking the sky. 

           Today, now, high up in a branch, was her friend of grey and white, black eyes watching her.

           It hopped three steps before spreading its wings and making light work of the distance between them. Sansa lifted her arm, and her friend grasped onto the sleeve of her cloak. She lightly brushed the bird with her gloved hand. She couldn’t stop the lightness that warmed her beneath her furs.

           “It’s just you and me left…” Sansa fished for lingering dried breadcrumbs in her cloak from her breakfast. The bird dutifully gobbled up each crumb. When it had finished, it hopped to the meat of her thumb and rested its head against her thumb. Nuzzling its head against the fabric of the glove. With each motion, it let loose a content  _ coo _ . Sansa smiled softly at that.

           “How is your chest doing?” she asked, well aware the bird couldn’t answer back. It was smart enough to  _ understand _ , at least. Puffing up its chest to give Sansa a clear view. The blood that once matted its white breast was mostly gone, a speck or two lingered deep in the folds of its chest. Sansa carefully scraped them away. 

           But the gash that set the bird on its course to meet the gods – it was healed. Not gone, the line was clear. The short feathers avoided the gash, like it was infected, or worse. It split the creature in half asymmetrically.

           “Looks like you’re doing better.” Sansa walked over to a felled tree and sat down, leaning her staff beside her. If people were still alive, they would say she was  _ mad _ . Talking to a bird as if it were a person. 

           Good thing no one was around to make such comments.

           “I had feared you followed my advice and left me,” she continued. The bird hopped to end of her palm, and Sansa lifted her other hand. It jumped, a single, clean hop. Its feathers brushed against the gap between her cloak and glove. Sansa giggled. The bird sang four notes. She wondered what it was saying:  _ I wouldn’t leave you _ . If only.

           “So…” she began. Watching as the bird picked at dirt from under its wings. It finally looked back up at her, with those glassy black eyes that held more warmth and kindness than she would have believed. Or, maybe she was projecting. She definitely was – that’s what the solitude did to her. A year of it, and all she had was a bird for a friend. Sansa petted the top of its head. “Do you not have friends either? Or family?”

           The bird chirped one of its songs, and Sansa wished she knew what it was saying. 

           Maybe:  _ I’ve lost all my friends and family, too, a long time ago. I’m the only one left _ .

           Or:  _ The monsters ate them.  _

           Or even:  _ I’ve a friend. I took pity on this poor girl I found wandering the woods _ .

           Sansa laughed at her imagination. The bird cocked its head at her. Jumped up to the top of her thumb. She could feel the tips of its claws bite into her flesh. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, assuaging the bird. It pecked at her palm, not content with the lie. “Really, it’s nothing.” 

           To make up for it, Sansa fished for a few more breadcrumbs. That curbed the bird’s interest.

           It jumped down to rest upon her lap. Sansa watched it settled in the fabric there, tucking its wings neatly behind it. And then: it began to sing.

           It was beautiful. Transcendent Something pulled at her heart. A million strings, each in a different direction. Like there were a million other birds, repeating the notes. A symphony of birdsong, just for her. Sansa closed her eyes, and she swore she could see them all: sitting in the trees around her, in the snow, those million birds. Filling her with a sudden happiness and sorrow that she hadn’t felt in so long. 

           And for those brief seconds, it felt like she wasn’t alone.

           Her friend finished its song. Shaking itself, staring up at her (always) with those dark black eyes. Sansa wanted to cry.

           “That was beautiful,” Sansa whispered. She wiped away the forming of tears from the corners of her eyes. The snot from her nose, skin burning in the cold. “If only you could talk–"

           The roar froze her heart.

           Sansa jumped off the log, grabbing her staff as she spun around.

           The creature – the  _ thing _ – was worse than the nightmares that woke her in the night. As huge as a house, bigger. Each of its fangs and claws as long as her head – easy enough to rip it in one bite. Chunks of skin sloughed off to reveal frozen muscles and bones beneath. Like a thing dead come back to life. It barrelled towards her clawed through trees and left foot-deep imprints in the snow as it continued to roar. 

           She couldn’t outrun it. She couldn’t  _ beat _ it.

           Sansa channeled her magic. Fire. Maybe fire would burn it away. Purify that  _ thing _ .

           She slammed it in the chest with all the magic she could muster. It staggered backwards, skin melting off to the snow beneath. It roared again – in pain, agony. In anger.

           Fast. So fast, Sansa didn’t know it had pierced her chest until she felt the cold slither beneath her skin.

_ This is it _ .

           It growled triumphantly. Hungrily.

           Sansa’s vision faded between black and red and white. A shadow flitted across her gaze – her friend. Poking at her unmoving face with its beak. It chirped at her, a quiet thing beneath the roaring.

_ Run _ , she tried to say. But her mouth wouldn’t move. Nothing moved.  _ Run. Please. Be safe _ .

           The monster flipped her onto her back. Sansa saw the endless whiteness of sky beyond the haze that lingered in the edges of her vision. Blocked out by the hulking form of that thing. It pinned her down with a clawed hand on each arm, tearing fabric and flesh. It was so heavy. So hungry. Bits of its singed stomach fell onto the hole in her own. Sansa screamed – though she couldn’t hear it.

           It didn’t want to play with its food. It just wanted to  _ eat _ .

           Rows of jagged, pointed teeth lowered. They scraped the crown of her head and her neck, drawing blood.

_ This is it _ .

           A flash of light blinded Sansa –  _ this is the end _ , she thought. It wasn’t as warm as she thought death would be. Her family wasn’t there, awaiting her on to the next life. 

           It was just as empty as her life was.

           And the light was gone. Replaced with noise: a deafening roar, the flapping of wings, bark tearing from trees, snow crunching underfoot.

           The weight was gone too. Her arms felt limp, broken. Wind whipped over the gaping hole in her stomach, so cold it burned.  _ Move, _ she yelled at herself.  _ Move. Please _ . She didn’t.

           Coldness urged Sansa to close her eyes, icy tears gluing eyelids shut. This was it. To die by the same claws that slaughtered the North. How fitting.

           Coldness whispered to Sansa:  _ you’re dead _ . Coldness urged the finality of death in to every crevice of her soul, pulling her to a life where maybe,  _ maybe _ , she wouldn’t bring about the end of everything.  _ You should be dead already _ .

           Only: there wasn’t silence to greet her. Shouting, roaring. Something hit a tree, the deafening  _ crack _ and the whistling  _ whooooooooo-krsh _ as it thundered onto the ground. 

           Unless the world was falling apart, too. 

           Sansa closed her eyes as she died.

* * *

           Death wasn’t as cold as she expected.

           She heard the crackling of the fire. Wind whipping against the windows. Her heart, beating in her chest. Besides that, the rest of the world was silent.

_ I’m home _ .

           Only: there wasn’t family to greet her.

           An unfamiliar ceiling. Stone and wood walls. Dirty rushes on the ground. There was the fire, flames licking the cold air, and the door creaked against the latch.

           Of course she would be alone again. Of course her family wouldn’t greet her in her next life.  _ Good people _ had good deaths.

           Sansa got what she deserved.

           Slowly, and painfully, she sat up on the hard bed. There was a single thread-bare blanket and her cloak atop her, and the crackling fire. Sansa shivered as she felt the haze of death wash away from her brain. It didn’t let go completely.

           She touched her stomach. Winced. Her furs were matted with ice and dirt and blood, so much blood. Sansa stared at her fingers as she wiped them away: they were stained crimson, where they weren’t purple from the cold.

           She shouldn’t be alive.

           She should be dead.

           And yet: here she was.

           The door opened.

           Sansa jumped out of the bed, desperate to find her staff and fight.  _ It’s back, _ was all her mind screamed.  _ It’s come to finish you off _ .

           Except she stumbled as pain shot throughout each of her limbs, collapsing atop the rushes and dirt. 

           Wood clattered to the ground as feet shuffled towards her.

_ No, please _ . Sansa thought she was crying, or maybe screaming. It was hard to tell – every part of her ached, and every thought in her mind was yelling. She looked around for her staff: there it was, on the other side of the fire. She ignored the pain in her stomach as she crawled towards it. Her shoulder burned as she reached for it, fingers not long enough.  _ Please _ .

           Hands were on her, lifting her to lean against the post of the bed. They were strong, fighting against her own erratic movements. Pinned hers –  _ that thing is going to eat me _ , she could feel the ghost of its teeth scraping against her neck, the scent of death washing over her as she stared into the jaws of that horrid  _ thing _ . She writhed beneath her captor:  _ no no no no _ . They were saying something, maybe, or maybe she was, it was hard to say.

_ Please _ .

           Until after a long while and a lot of shaking – and the realization that no, they weren’t going to  _ eat her _ – Sansa forced her body to calm down.  _ No _ . Her breaths came out in short white bursts in the air.  _ No _ . Sansa looked up.

           She didn’t know him. 

           A pang of disappointment that it wasn’t her father, or one of her brothers, her mother, her friends. Someone she had damned come back to tell her:  _ it’s okay _ . 

_ You didn’t kill us all, not really. _

_ You did your best _ .

           This stranger was that: a stranger. The man before her could have been anyone: wild dark curls with streaks of grey, light wrinkles etching his face, and blinking eyes of spring moss. His fingers were warm where they wrapped around her wrists. 

           But more than that were the  _ wings _ . Large, soft feathers tucked behind his back (though she realized that they had knocked the table to the side, and some of them were torn or singed at the bottom). There were traces of his wings at his wrists, tickling her skin. And though the top half of him (beside the massive grey-and-white wings) was a man, the bottom half was not. Feathered legs, talons where feet should be. A maester’s nightmare of something human, and yet not.

           Like those things in the snow.

           Sansa stared back up into his eyes. The way they blinked slowly. How they tore through her into her very soul. She didn’t know him, but she  _ knew _ .

           It was there, writ in front of her: the scar. Jagged and pink, splitting his chest in half. Still raw. And not alone – a miasma of fresh scars covered his arms and chest and neck. Most of them were crusted with blood and dirt.

_ It’s… _

           Slowly, Sansa eked her right hand free from his grasp. He didn’t contest her, letting go of both. Sansa raised her hand, not wholly believing that  _ this _ was the same bird that was trounced by the fox. The same bird that (through cleverness, and instinct) saved itself from being eaten alive. The same bird she kissed. Slowly, Sansa closed the distance between them, resting it on his chest. His skin was warm beneath her fingers. She followed the line of the scar, from where it started at his collarbone, down the smattering of hair of his chest, down to where it ended just above where skin transformed into feathers. Up again, resting where his heart might be.

           When she looked up into his face again, Sansa saw that his own gaze was glued to where her hand touched his chest. 

           She felt it again: those million strings pulling her apart. But as much as they threatened to tear, they pushed her back together.

           Sansa  _ knew _ , but she had to ask. Her voice was shaky, her lips dry. “What… Who are you?”

           He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. Cocked his head at her. Sansa was immediately reminded of the way he did the same as a bird, and couldn’t help the quiet giggle the escaped her lips. His head tilted further. 

           Mossy eyes darted from her own, down to their connection at his heart, and back up. Finally, he spoke: “I… don’t know? I don’t have a name, I think.” Only, it didn’t sound like what she thought. He didn’t sound like any single person, really. An amalgamation of every voice it heard, tones changing even in the middle of words. He must have seen the confusion on Sansa’s face, cleared his throat as he said, “I’m...not sure who – what – I am.”

           She remembered the old witches, before they burned alive. How some witches had familiars: creatures of magic bound to their witch, a part of them as much as their own heart. 

           She remembered that day in the forest. The fox pouncing on him, tearing him nearly in half. The surprise as she bit her lip. The kiss-

           The kiss. Her blood, and his.

_ Oh _ .

           “I never gave you a name…” she whispered.

           He dipped his head down to see her eyes. His own were soft. The skin between his eyes furrowed in confusion. “A name…?” His voice was slowly becoming a single, solid thing. It was raspier than she imagined.

           Sansa nodded. Ran her finger again up and down that jagged scar – she couldn’t seem to stop touching it, to  _ believe _ that he was here, real. He shivered at her touch, but didn’t cower from it. Leant into it, like he did when she pet his head or stroked his wings. Like he couldn’t stop  _ wanting _ to feel her touch, either. “Yes. I… We… The day you were attacked by the fox, I healed you. But I also initiated a pact with our blood.”

           He remembered that day, too, from the quick flicker of shadows that crossed his eyes. Because he nearly  _ died _ , lying in the snow with his body torn in two. Until Sansa took  _ pity _ on him. 

_ He’s alive, because I interfered with nature. Again _ . 

           “So,” she continued, shaking those horrid memories away from the present (the way red soaked the grey stones of Winterfell. The way the screams echoed off the towers). “If you  _ want _ to continue the pact, then I can name you. Otherwise, you can go.”  _ And I’ll be alone again _ .

           He sat back on his haunches, losing the connection with Sansa. It was an effort not to reach out for him again.  _ Go if you want _ , she thought. He looked down at his hands, his legs. Stretched his wings behind him – they knocked over a pot and collided with the wall to the left, but he didn’t seem to pay that attention. He was lost in his own thoughts.

           He didn’t look at her as he said, “I don’t have family or friends either. I  _ would _ fly home, but…” 

           Sansa finished it for him:  _ but I have nowhere to call home _ .

_ Nor do I _ .

           She picked up one of his hands, lacing their fingers together. The other fished for her cloak atop the bed, looking for the hidden pocket with her dagger. Sansa could feel the hole in her stomach stretch open as she did it. Fresh blood soaking her clothes. She gritted her teeth, but the pain was so obvious, he swatted her hand away and found the dagger for her. His chest was so close when he leant over her, Sansa fought again against that urge to touch him. She had the sudden desire to  _ taste _ him, to kiss a line of that jagged scar. She didn’t.

           It wasn’t  _ necessary _ to share blood again, but Sansa didn’t want to take a chance. She instructed him to slice a thin line into the pads of their thumbs. 

           “Trust me,” she said.

           They pressed their hands together, fingers intertwined, their blood connecting them. Sansa could feel his heart beating as she spoke the words, binding him to her. A spell she hoped she remembered right, Old Nan’s creaking voice echoing in her head as she repeated them.

           “And I name you...Petyr.”

           She didn’t know  _ where _ the name came from, but it just  _ felt _ right.

           Petyr inhaled a jagged breath, let it go in a single, long exhale. Stared up at her as they removed their hands. Breathing fast, blinking. Like he was breathing for the first time. Like he was looking at her for the first time.

           “You can change back, I believe. To a bird.” Sansa stammered out. Suddenly afraid that  _ now _ he wouldn’t want her. That completing the ritual made him realize what a horrible person she truly was. 

           He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I–"`

           “Wait. You...heard that?”

           Petyr gave a half-shrug. “I...think?”

           Sansa wished Old Nan were here, or Olenna, or even the witches her own age.  _ Someone _ who could talk to her, tell her all of the things she forgot or never knew. The things that were only recorded in voices. 

           “We’re bonded,” she began, thinking out loud. “So...I suppose it’s not unusual for our thoughts to be connected…”

           She saw them in pieces: trees fluttering past her as she flew. Fields of oranges and pinks and purples, flowers swaying in the golden afternoon light. People walking past her as she stood perched atop a roof. The fox’s maw closing around her. The monster, shooting an arm into Sansa’s stomach as she saw her body fall, as she watched herself die. 

           They weren’t her memories, but they felt like hers.

           Long moments passed as Petyr must have been exploring her own memories. Sansa wondered what he was seeing. Did he see the days when she would help with the crops of everyone in the North? Did he see when Arya pranked her and put brown dye in her soap? Did he see when Sansa doomed Winterfell to a fate worse than death: to the ice, the snow, the monsters that slept just beneath the earth? 

           Finally, Petyr blinked her memories away, focusing on now. He stared at her with those mossy eyes, so unlike the pitch darkness that Sansa once found herself staring into. So unlike, and yet, so similar. “May I…” he began, licking his lips. He worked his hands over the feathers of his legs. Sansa saw cuts there, too. And blood. “Can I try something, Sansa?”

           She realized as he said it that she never told him her name. It sounded so  _ good _ to have someone else say it. She nodded at him, trying her best to swallow the sobs and tears that threatened to transform her into a mess.

           Petyr reached with shaky hands, grasping her head between them. Gods, that contact, that warmth of another body – Sansa couldn’t fight back the tears. And as he leaned forward, Sansa  _ knew _ , and closed her eyes.

           His lips were soft. She tasted the coldness of the North on his lips, and the saltiness of her tears. 

           Sansa lay her palms against his chest – not pushing him away, gods no – as they sat there and kissed for who knew how long. Slowly, she felt her fingers creeping around his chest, like they  _ needed _ to move, to explore. Resting against the join where his feathers sprouted from his back. She toyed with the small feathers there.

           Petyr shuddered, and the sound ignited something in Sansa.

           “That...tickles?” He sounded unsure, cocking his head at her. His breathing was quick, but so was hers.

           Sansa smiled (something she imagined to be  _ wicked _ ) as she ran her fingers along the 

           He did, too.

           They kissed again, not so cautious this time. His hands crushed her head. Hers dug into his back, his wings – she relished the way he reacted as she touched him. 

           When he moved in, crushing his chest against hers, Sansa winced. Pain laced up her body. Petyr jumped away, afraid of what he’d done.

           “It’s fine, I’m fine,” she lied. She smiled, to make him feel better.

           Sansa kept her hands from pulling him back into that kiss (though it was difficult. It was the lack of human contact in months, she told herself. And why lie? Sansa  _ had _ been so gods-damn lonely. Her heart hurt so much, she forgot how lonely she was). She shook those thoughts away, keeping her hands busy instead over the gash. She could feel her magic slowly stitching skin back together, but it would take a long time. She stared at Petyr, at the way his gaze was focused on her injury. His hand touched his own scar. “Where did you learn that?” she asked.

           Petyr blinked up at her. “I’ve...seen people do things like that before.”

           It was Sansa’s turn to cock her head at him. “You  _ watched _ people…?”

           He smiled, though only half of his mouth turned upwards. It was cute, in its own way. “Humans are...were…interesting. I was...intrigued by them. Though more damning might be learning their voices…”

           A series of his memories flashed in her head. She could see people, looking around confused as Petyr sang their voices. In one, he revealed a boy’s position in hide-and-go-seek. In another, he told a wife the truth of her husband’s cheating ways. In another, he promised a little girl that her mother would be there for her, always. Sansa couldn’t help the mix of tears and laughter that bubbled out of her. Real laughter, real happiness. It felt so light, so warm, she forgot what it was.

           And real tears, too. They fell and fell and fell. Sansa cupped her hands over her eyes, trying to hide them from Petyr. He didn’t try to comfort her, because he knew the tears were  _ happiness _ . She could feel the relief in his own body as he watched her. She could feel his own happiness.

           It was weird, sharing so much with someone.

           It was beautiful.

           Sansa clutched her stomach as the laughter ripped apart the freshly-stitched skin. Oh, but it was worth it for that brief moment of lightness. “I just need to rest for a bit, Petyr,” she said, wincing at the pain that shot up her stomach as he helped her to lie down. “I promise, I’ll be better.”

           “Okay,” he said, leaning in to kiss her again. 

           Sansa closed her eyes again. And for the first time in a long while, she had a reason to look forward to opening them.

* * *

           “Please be careful…”

           Petyr smiled at her, and right now she  _ hated _ the way it was crooked. “I  _ promise _ I’ll be careful, Sansa.”

           Which sounded to her:  _ I promise I won’t be. Not for a little while at least _ .

           She opened her mouth to protest-

           Petyr shot them up into the skies.

           Sansa screamed, clutching onto his neck as she watched the trees shrink beneath them, not until they were white and brown streaks upon the earth. She closed her eyes, her head dizzy at the height. And she could feel them rising ever higher. 

_ Why did I agree to this… _ she wondered. She felt Petyr chuckle.

           Seconds passed as the wind whipped around them was the only companion to the beating of Petyr’s wings. She pressed her face against his chest, listening to the hammering of his heart. It was comforting. It sounded like hers.

           Finally: “Sansa. Look.”

           Wearily, she opened her eyes.

           Cresting above the grey silhouettes of mountains to the east, the sun rose in its golden splendor. It shone through the haze of clouds, casting the sky above them and the forest below into streaks of blues and pinks and oranges. Faint twinkles of stars shone in the sky. Long shadows of trees stretched upon the snow-covered fields. 

           Everything was still.

           Everything was beautiful.

           Sansa cried. She’d done that several times since she woke up from her rest (it took just over a week for her latent magic to stitch her stomach back together. And all the while, she felt unafraid. Because Petyr had been there, dutifully replacing the wood in the fire. Watching her. Holding her hand). But these tears were so different than the ones that had overtaken her in her year of penance, of isolation – Sansa was  _ happy _ . Content.

           “You’re welcome,” Petyr said to her, his voice barely audible over the wind whipping past them or his wings keeping them steady as the sun rose inch by inch into the endless winter sky. His arms were strong around her – Sansa held back onto him.

           Eventually, they forced themselves back down onto the ground. It was well into the morning by then. 

           She turned when he let her go, hugging him chest-to-chest. Sometimes, she thought she could feel the ghost of his scar beating, a line of  _ th-thump _ against her own chest. Sometimes, she would kiss it, above or beneath the furs they scavenged from deserted villages. She looked for boots for him, but Petyr much preferred keeping his legs feathered and taloned – in case of unexpected ambush. And it made it easier to land on trees as they surveyed the landscape, the sky. 

           At least, when they were outside of the cabin Petyr preferred bird parts of him. In the warmth of the fire and beneath the blankets, it was different. Sansa explored his body as he did hers, and each night they found something new. She tested – and proved – that the responsiveness of his wings to her touch was the same as when he trailed his fingers along her sides, or nipped at the join of her neck. 

           And they had time – so much time – to get to know each other better.

           Sansa’s voice cracked as she said into Petyr’s chest, “You saved me.”

           And not from that thing that tore a hole into her stomach. Not from the cold embrace of death that had been waiting for Sansa Stark for so long, too long. 

           From loneliness. From isolation. 

           From wandering the ice and snow until she succumbed to the monsters in the dark, or the monsters in her head.

           Petyr lifted her face from the crook of his neck, kissing the edge of her mouth first, then placing a full kiss to her lips. He replied just as quietly: “You saved me first.”

 


End file.
